I have a dream. A stupid one…but a dream nevertheless.

I want goats.

Correction. I want the idea of goats. These are not the same thing.

The idea of goats is delightful. The reality of goats, I suspect, is considerably more complicated and probably involves insurance claims.

Goats have excellent marketing. Tiny goats bouncing around paddocks are objectively adorable. Baby goats don’t walk anywhere so much as launch themselves through life using all four feet simultaneously. They look permanently surprised to be alive. I love their little faces. I love their curiosity. I love their confidence. I love that they approach life with the energy of middle management arriving at a team-building exercise. And I particularly love that goat names seem to work best when they sound like retired accountants.

Kevin.

Alan.

Steve.

Susan.

Valerie.

Colin.

I don’t know why this is true. It simply is.

I can absolutely picture myself wandering out into the paddock every morning to say hello to Kevin and Alan while they trot over looking delighted to see me. The sheep would be there too. Everyone would get along beautifully. There would be wholesome countryside moments involving cuddles and pockets full of pellets and charming photographs for Instagram. People would say, “You have goats?” And I would casually reply, “Oh yes, that’s Steve.”

This is the dream.

Unfortunately, I also know enough about goats to understand that this dream has been heavily edited for television. Because goats are not sheep. Sheep are lovely but fundamentally simple creatures. Their entire operating system appears to consist of:

Eat grass.

Follow other sheep.

Panic occasionally.

Repeat.

Goats, meanwhile, possess intelligence. And personality. And what I can only describe as criminal intent. Sheep look at fences and think, “Ah yes. A boundary.” Goats look at fences and think, “An interesting engineering challenge.”

I’ve spent years building a garden that sheep have never once managed to enter. Goats would view this not as a limitation but as a personal invitation. A puzzle. A mission. A career opportunity. I can absolutely picture myself looking out the kitchen window to discover Kevin standing triumphantly in the middle of the rose garden eating a David Austin rose that cost more than my first car. Valerie would be balancing on the outdoor table for reasons known only to herself. Colin would somehow be on the roof. I don’t know how. I don’t need to know how. The important thing is that he would be there.

And if I marched outside and explained, firmly but fairly, that we do not eat the roses and we certainly do not stand on the hydrangeas, they would stare at me with rectangular pupils and continue doing exactly what they were doing before. Probably while maintaining eye contact.

The sheep, at least, possess a vague sense of shame when caught doing something wrong. Goats strike me as the sort of animals who would listen carefully to my concerns before immediately repeating the offence in order to establish dominance. I suspect they would regard my disappointment as useful feedback rather than a deterrent.

So, I want goats. But I don’t want goats. I want goat cuddles without goat consequences. I want the photographs without the property damage. I want the whimsical lifestyle-block aesthetic without finding Steve eating the washing off the line or Susan standing in the vegetable garden looking pleased with herself.

Unfortunately, life rarely offers this kind of arrangement. And so, for now I remain goatless. Not because I lack affection for goats. Quite the opposite. I like them far too much to risk ruining the relationship with boundaries, fencing disputes and arguments about who exactly owns the dahlias.

Although I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t occasionally found myself browsing listings for miniature goats online. Purely for research purposes, obviously. This is how it always starts. One minute you’re innocently looking. The next minute you’re explaining to your husband that technically two pygmy goats don’t take up much room and that Kevin and Susan would probably be excellent for the sheep’s social development.

Poor decision-making when it comes to acquiring animals is, unfortunately, part of my DNA. Which means there is every possibility that this post ages very badly and in twelve months’ time I’ll be writing a follow-up titled:

“Why Colin Is No Longer Allowed Near The Greenhouse.”

Did you know?

Tomatoes are the horticultural equivalent of that overachiever at work who volunteers for everyone else's job as well as their own. Those fuzzy little hairs running up the stem? They aren't just there for decoration. Each one has the potential to become a root if it comes into contact with soil. This is why tomatoes are one of the few plants you can plant ridiculously deep. If your seedling has become tall, leggy and awkward-looking while waiting for warmer weather, don't despair. Simply bury much of the stem when planting out and your tomato will respond by producing an entirely new root system along the buried section. More roots means a stronger plant, better access to water and nutrients, and often a healthier, more productive tomato crop. It's also why, if a tomato stem flops onto the ground during the season, you'll often discover it's quietly started rooting where it touched the soil. Tomatoes are apparently incapable of seeing bare dirt without thinking, "I could probably grow some roots there."

Nature intended tomatoes to crawl along the ground like sprawling vines. We humans are the ones insisting they stand upright with canes, strings and stern instructions about appropriate behaviour. Tomatoes are, quite literally, the centipedes of the vegetable garden.

What’s new on Behind the Garden Gate this week?

• 🌹Nitty Gritty: will it look good in vase? Not every beautiful bloom performs well as a cut flower. Find out more about the development of my cutting garden in this article.

• 🧑‍🦰Nitty Gritty: what does your garden say about your personality? My garden speaks volumes about mine.